


let the love tear us apart

by orphan_account



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Two weeks after their breakup, Jooheon comes by to pick up his stuff.





	let the love tear us apart

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment to force myself out of my writing comfort zone, and hopefully it'll help my writer's block in the process. Every now and then I'll be writing these little vignettes, about 1000 words.
> 
> Enjoy!

The first thing to go is a love poem written on the back of a 7-Eleven receipt with a ballpoint pen about to run dry, scratchy and blue like the bleach fried ends of Jooheon’s hair when he dyed it teal that one summer. Two or maybe three years ago. Changkyun can’t remember. 

Next is a second-hand copy of _A Farewell to Arms_ that was bought somewhere in the guts of Paris, the spine cracked and worn from someone else’s use. (Changkyun only opened it once to read the inscription on the inside cover.)

Tickets stubs from films they saw together follow after it, fluttering into the trash bin like plastic rose petals onto the floor of a cheap motel's honeymoon suite. Then a stuffed koala Jooheon won at a fair, its button nose hanging on by mere threads, a knick-knack or two from a local thrift shop, and finally a matchbook from the jazz bar they went to the night Jooheon said “I love you” for the first time. 

Changkyun's almost tempted to strike one, watch it burn down to his fingerprints, feel the heat of it as it kisses his skin like Jooheon once did, when the intercom buzzes.

Changkyun lets him up, leaves the door of his flat unlocked.

Jooheon lets himself in. He always has.

In the dim light of the foyer, he looks worse than usual, his hair matted down from the rain, his bruised undereyes all the more noticeable as he shifts on his heels and the shadow of the door jamb falls over his face.

Changkyun steps to the side and a nod of his head gives Jooheon all the permission he needs to come all the way inside. Jooheon wastes no time with small talk, knowing full well that it'd be met with nothing but half-hearted answers (if the talks surrounding their breakup are anything to go by). He finds his way into the living room and starts gathering his things.

They say nothing, hanging in the limbo between the no longer and the not yet, not lovers but not friends either. If Changkyun were to pass Jooheon on the street, he would probably bow his head, keep going, not breathe until he reached the bus stop. 

He feels out of breath even now, just watching Jooheon fiddle with a cassette player that’s made its home in Changkyun’s flat for the past four years. He almost fears it’ll break as Jooheon’s finger jams down the reject button and the tape pops out.

“You always had shit taste in music."

It’s the first thing Jooheon’s said to Changkyun in maybe a week that’s face-to-face and not through a staticky intercom or the pay phone down the street. It’s almost tongue and cheek, but Changkyun knows he means it at least a little by the way his eyes flit to the floor and then back up to conclude his sentence.

Changkyun eyes the tape. “That’s your mix, not mine,” he says, and he’s not even sure of it until it slides out and he sees Jooheon’s messy block letters scrawled across the front.

Jooheon says nothing, his lips pressed into a hyphen as he tucks the tape player away in his rumpled gym bag with a few other things; an old crewneck with a coffee stain on the front (Changkyun’s fault), a couple records left for him on the kitchen table, some comic books, a worn stack of polaroids. He spots the row of picture frames lying face down on the shelf, but leaves them alone, shooting Changkyun a glance that he probably wasn’t meant to catch.

“Have everything?” Changkyun asks.

“Yeah, just gonna, um, check the bedroom.”

Changkyun doesn’t follow after him. Instead, he sits on the couch and bites at his thumb nail, trying to stifle memories of better spent Sunday afternoons.

Bitter espresso at the café around the corner. Jooheon wipes foam from his mouth that Changkyun might get to taste the remnants of later, creamy and all the more sweet like the last sip of milk tea. 

Trips to art museums tucked away in a burrow of the city that almost feels like theirs, sunless days spent inside with sore necks as they contort to see every brush stroke and every bristle of colour. Changkyun likes the blue paintings, Jooheon the yellow.

Days spent in bed eating toast and watching reruns of 70s sitcoms. Jam gets on the bedsheets and Jooheon kisses Changkyun before he has the chance to brush his teeth. Nothing else matters in those moments but the space between their pillowcases and making sure the doorbell never rings.

Imagining a Sunday that could be any better, while listening to Jooheon rummaging around for things that were once communal, feels impossible, so Changkyun doesn’t begin to try.

After a while, he stands, rubbing tears (that aren’t really there but feel like they should be) from the corners of his eyes, and pads into the bedroom.

“Jooheon, time to go,” he says.

Jooheon packs away a few more things into his bag, this time with less sure-fire intent than before. He passes Changkyun on his way out, his eyes trained on the floor as not to accidentally look at him again. 

The front door opens and shuts and Changkyun is alone and the apartment feels just as empty as he thought it would, but somehow no emptier than before. Whether it’s because he feels better now or because he feels no worse, he can’t tell.

He finds his way into the bedroom, and sits on the bed with its rumpled and unwashed sheets, looking for faded stains of pink. Instead, he finds _A Farewell to Arms_ opened on his pillow, a page dogeared.

He picks it up and flips to the front. The same inscription inks the inside of the cover.

_I’m not always the best with words, so have some of Hemingway’s. Just know that I love you._

_From, Jooheon._

Changkyun turns the pages and sees they’ve been marked by that same blue pen, passages underlined with little notes written in careful letters in the margins. Changkyun traces his thumb over one such quote, the raised type pricks him like the faint ache swallowing his heart, crawling its way up his throat. His eyes swell and it hurts, but he reads it anyways.

_"Maybe you'll fall in love with me all over again."_

_"Hell," I said, "I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?"_

_"Yes. I want to ruin you."_

_"Good," I said. "That's what I want too."_

He never should have bothered.


End file.
